Schism
by aaabbbey
Summary: Post-Shattered JC angst.


Schism  
Abbey Carter, Fandom: VOY  
Part: 1/1  
Archive: Yes  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns them. No profit.  
Pairing: J/C  
Summary: Immediate post-Shattered cruelty. Angst. Thanks to Djinn for betaing.  
AN: For the record, I love Shattered. And the happy ending. I just had to go subversive. The fact that I drafted this while watching The Red Green Show on two shots of espresso might explain it.

He's seen a ghost. And not an entirely malevolent one, I can tell. Chakotay's face, already loosened by cider, shows a sort of warmth, a sort of fondness. I grew to expect these feelings over the years, but lately, they've been absent.

"Tell me what you saw," I whisper. This conspiracy can be small, I am saying. Unlike so much, it can be ours.

He faces me. "Kathryn, the Temporal Prime Directive."

"We don't need it." I pour him another drink, brush my hand against his.

This earns me a raised eyebrow. "These rules, when did you leave them behind?"

"The alliance with the Borg." The words flow out too easily, too honestly, before I can remember what weight they carry with him.

He takes another sip; his eyes attempt to lock onto my face. "I guess that was when you changed."

Chakotay thinks I've gone wrong, become twisted. And maybe I have. Certainly twisted enough to get him drunk and spilling the events of the day.

I don't want his lamentations. Not tonight. I draw closer to his spot on the couch. I am tight with adrenaline and affectionate loathing. "Do I know this woman you met?" I murmur, voice dipping low and tremulous despite my best efforts.

"You did, once." Melodrama creates a spell tonight, I've noticed.

"Did you work well with her?"

"Yes, I did." He slurs the words slightly, blinks slowly. "We completed the mission together."

He stands, walks a step, draws me up to him. Holds my back against his chest, my head against his shoulders. I can smell the cider and disappointment on his breath.

"This is how I held her," he says, looping his arms tightly around my torso. "I dragged her into the hallway."

"Did she struggle?"

"Yes. I told her I held poison. Here, right here." He trails his fingers along my neck, struggles to control his breath. If drink makes a person bold, it makes Chakotay slightly more forthcoming.

"She said it was against her will. I told her if I injected her, she could follow me." What phallic specialist advised him on this mission?

"Was it very much like this?" I drawl, drawn into the strange warmth we create.

"Yes. Very much." He is quiet. His hands close on my waist, I turn to face him. "But she was happier. Gentler. I couldn't feel her bones," he murmurs, flicking a thumb along the arch of my hip as his words slick together.

Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I'm cruel. But I can live with the knowledge that I have violated his trust. As he has mine. And I think now, I want to sleep. Away from past delusions of grand, fitful romance. Alone with the chemistry fermenting in my head, no less.

"Chakotay..."

His arms are solid, his gaze strong and almost sober. "I realized that I've missed you, these years."

"I've been here." My voice rises. Still, I hear only the ship's engines and his nervous breathing.

"No. You know what I mean." The accusation is breathless, quick. If the experience of presumably meeting a younger, shinier, version of myself changed him, it hasn't done anything to remedy his lack of self-knowledge.

"I'm sorry." I speak slowly, clearly. "I'm sorry I'm not who you want me to be. I wanted to be more for you. For all of us. But this is how I survive."

His face dips to read mine, he seems off guard. I wonder how the hypospray felt against my skin, how it cleared my veins, rushed to my head.

"Is sorry the right word, Kathryn? Are you?" My hips burn with pressure and time-cooked wanting. And it crosses my mind briefly, that if his attitude was different, this sadness could become repentance.

"No. I'm not. The wrong word. I don't have a word for this. Failure?"

His cheek is smooth and hot as he lowers it against mine, as he sighs with his familiar brand of long-suffering. I wonder if he hates me. Either way, my feeling of guilt is relatively mild. I press my face against his, breathe in deeply. "I too, have sorrow." Grief at evil experienced. His, mine, our own. Liking myself isn't part of the job description. I tell myself it isn't always possible.

Strange warmth got us here, and strange warmth draws us back. Disappointment unfolds as our joined fingers separate. The waves of time roll forward, with more certainty than before, with the stridency I have again enforced. The hiss of the door hurts me a little less than it used to. Less than it did in the days when I was different woman. And soon, there is only the echoing illusion of holding, and being held.

END

(Index)


End file.
